


Sacrilege is Only Part of the Problem (updated)

by ofproperform



Series: Sins of the Flesh (Anderson/Integra) [1]
Category: Hellsing
Genre: Biting, Choking, Church Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hate Sex, Hate fucking, Hate to Love, I orphaned this fic but I rewrote it., Public Sex, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rough Sex, Sacrilege, Scratching, anderson needs to sort his prioriies oofies, scottish accent, sorry for the self righteous hate sex, thanks for putting up with me, unrequited feelings oops, will be a guide to translate his words don't worry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:33:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28006998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofproperform/pseuds/ofproperform
Summary: Anderson is a priest, after all, so it's only fitting that he bares her sins in the church.
Relationships: Alexander Anderson/Integra Hellsing, Alucard / Integra Hellsing (implied), Integra Hellsing / Seras Victoria (implied)
Series: Sins of the Flesh (Anderson/Integra) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2051283
Kudos: 9





	1. LATRIA

It seems as if this has happened _before_ ; **ANDERSON** has the woman pinned to a wall, _sneering_ at the _**HELLSING**_ woman with a tense and deep **loathing** , bared teeth and peeled back lips. His eyes are _**wild**_ and dark with anger. This could end in tragedy, but don’t **all** of their meetings seem to carry that weight?

**INTEGRA’S** fingers are tight around the grip of her Sig-Sauer, _**defiant**_ , head raised as he presses a bayonet blade against her open neck. She too is sneering, her white teeth glistening in her mouth, a stark contrast to her tawny skin. She glances briefly at the bayonet he lodged in the wall beside her that currently pins the sleeve of her suit and button-down with it. It appears as though if she wants to weasel out of the pin she’s in, she’d have to rip the sleeves further or lose the top altogether. 

And this is a _church_.

They are both **vicious**. There is no love here to be lost. The holy man, Anderson, and his prey, the Babylon, Integra, are mere _**inches**_ apart as they glare each other down. Were looks able to kill, they’d both have been _**dead**_ by now. They are so close that they bump noses from time to time when one speaks or breathes in. She can feel his breath, **hot** and damp and smelling of _cheap_ whiskey. She grins, thinking of how unbecoming it was for a member of the clergy to be drinking so _**heavily**_. She tilts her face, exhaling hot breath on his cheek, the smell of tobacco _clinging_ to the air when she does. As she does her lips make the slightest ‘o’ shape, and they are almost lip-to-lip. He snarls, _**snapping**_ his teeth as if he’s some wild animal. He hisses through the grit of his teeth ‘ _heretic_ ,’ and he looks wild. _**Enticingly**_ so.

His free hand moves to her throat now, the other hand pinning her unscathed sleeve to the wall as well with the second bayonet. He does not close his hand around her throat, _yet_ , but it is _**tempting**_ , as she cranes her head, that slender, strong neck **begging** for his cruel hand around it. She raises a hand and he watches it carefully as she brings her slender fingers to his larger hand, _**closing**_ his fingers around her throat, _encouraging_ him.

_ Go ahead, **do** **it**. _

So, as _prompted_ , he **does** , tightening his grip on her soft throat, the fabric of his gloves rubbing roughly against her skin. He brings a knee up and presses it into her abdomen, ensuring that he takes her breath away. She lets out a gasp, eyes wide, locking her stare onto his. The color starts fading from her face, and he can see her throat tremble and _spasm_ as it tries to get air in. He is tempted to squeeze down and _**snap**_ that slender neck of hers, end so much of his troubles and strife, but restrains himself. Anderson was formidable and massive. His entire body was larger than Alucard’s, she thinks nearly every time she’s faced with the catholic. He seemed to be miles tall and built as if he was the Vatican’s tank. It made things like this all the more intense as she was lorded over by his hulking frame. While struggling to breathe she reaches up with the hand formerly guiding him to choke her, grabbing his collar, and yanking it out of the shirt. She tosses it, not caring where it _lands_.

She choked audibly, tiny coughs and whimpers no one else had heard, he thought, and his blue eyes studied hers as her eyelids _drooped_ , but she showed no sign of trying to stop him. She lifted the gun up, bringing it between them, hiccuping and wheezing as she did, motioning with the weapon to show that her safety was still on. After all, it can’t be fun to hurt the actor in your play. It _skittered_ across the ground, sliding to a stop at the foot of a statue of some saint she’d never cared to remember the name of. She watches as his eyes flit to the base of the statue and notices him look at the thing before returning his gaze to her. He prayed silently that the eyes of the saint would not watch this.

_ This is a church. _

“ _Hellsing_ ” he growled out, teeth bared and near her throat now as he leaned into her ear. Her flaxen hair brushed against his cheek, and he closed his eyes. For a second he is caught _inhaling_ her scent. She washed with what smelled like a men’s wash. He imagined it briefly, suddenly **ashamed**. This only angered him more and he tightened his grip. Were she a less prideful being she’d have begun to beg or flail, but instead she _twists_ a fist into the black of his shirt fabric, and holds it tight. He can feel her weakening in his grip, and the dark voice in his head reminds him that he could **end** her right here and now. But instead, he grins, head tilting until it is pressed to hers, hissing into her ear. “Ah coods knock ye it if Ah wanted tae, min' 'at.”

He loosens his grip though and he feels her take a deep, _gasping_ breath, not changing her expression from a pleased _**grin**_. “You won’t, will you?” Her voice is _hoarse_ from choking, but **dulcet** stil, and her icy eyes fix on his face. She once again presses her throat to his massive hand, encouraging him to continue. She knew this would bruise, but she didn’t care. This was a game of chicken she would not _lose_. He grimaces and makes a low growling noise before fixing his attention on one of the bayonets, pulling it free from the wall, unpinning her left sleeve. He took the knee off of her torso and lowered it down, pressing it between her thighs, pushing up. 

_**This is a church.** _

She gives a low, barely audible _moan_ as she rocks a moment into the knee. It’s a barely noticeable action, and if any one of her men were awake to see it, they wouldn’t even _notice_ it. No, instead they stayed like this for a moment, one hand between her legs and a hand on her throat. He momentarily puts the bayonet between his teeth to figure out what he wanted to do with it. 

_Instinctively_ he momentarily slips it between buttons on her shirt, snagging one and watching as it fell to the ground, the blade continuing to _slip_ beneath her shirt, gently _grazing_ her skin. He pulls the blade out and slowly runs it over her slacks, going so far as to slide it **_between_** her thighs, careful not to slice her open. She lewdly groans, eyes fluttering closed. 

  
  


She was a _**temptress**_ in the house of God, and he begged not to be made **ruin** by her ways.

“ _Barbaric_ ,” she teases, leaning forward, straining against his hand. Her lips brush his cheek as she whispers in his ear. “ _There are better things to have in your mouth, **Father**_.” She grins, and he can feel his cheeks heating up as if he was some flustered teen. He lets the bayonet hit the ground, and with one hand begins undoing her button-down, working the buttons over slowly, careful not to pop one off of the starched white shirt. She groans, always annoyed that he wouldn’t bring himself to tearing her clothes off and leaving them a mess. Of course, eventually, they would look as if she’d been in a battle with him, but he didn’t want their tryst to look _obvious_. He yanks the zipper of her slacks open, quickly undoing the top button, and slips his hand into them, feeling the soft, sensible feel of cotton against his own _glove_ , the way it glided. He feels her soaking his gloves, and he _shudders_ at the idea. 

He is careful not to make it obvious because he does not want the **_backlash_**. He dreads someone finding out he fucks this protestant whore, and the _aftermath_ that would ensue. He also worries how her people would respond; he is _sure_ the monster Alucard and his bitch whelp know, too familiar with their brand of senses to be delusional to think that at least Alucard has caught on. However, he stays careful and cautious, too caught up in the _secret_. He wonders why he lets himself be swept up in this. 

He strips her strong form _slowly_. He takes off her jacket and button-down and lets them hang from where they are on the bayonet, he yanks her slacks down around her knees. He lets her go so she may take off what else she sees fit. She steps out of the slate grey slacks and pushes them to the side in a pool and she begins to pull down her underwear before he roughly grabs her, yanking them to the floor _himself_. In the field, she bound her breasts down to keep them out of the way, and slowly pulled the stiff and constricting binder off and up over her head. Her hair is a mess, wild strays dancing in the dim light, _**glistening**_ in the light that filters in from the adjacent window. She is naked, he has bared her sins in the church for all the statues and icons to witness. Slowly he brings his hands down over her chest, running his fingers over the small, perky mounds of flesh, thumbs brushing her dark nipples. He avoids letting himself be caught up in the action, and moves his hands to her shoulders, gripping them.

He pushes her once more into the wall, before kissing her roughly. He never would have guessed that he, a devout priest, would end up in this situation. He imagined fucking her when he was not in her presence, prayed over it, and mourned his holiness. He knows he is going to hell; but he knows she is, too. He feels her fingers work to strip him down, expose his sin. He pushes her hands away and she settles for shucking his overcoat **off** , definitely trying to bring him to her level of undress. She is pleased with this, and as the kiss ends, she separates from him, lips parted and swollen already from the intense kiss. 

  
He _wants_ her, he **fears** her. He would take a hoard of ghouls descending on his corpse over this. He is **disgusted** and _enthralled_ all at once. He wants her badly, but he also wants a bullet in the head instead. He kisses her viciously again, trying to stay the thoughts, pushing his body into hers, his massive frame eclipsing hers.

  
  


She attempts once more to strip him, this time focusing on the belt of his pants, but he swats her hands away as if she were a nuisance, breaking the kiss. She looks at him, frustrated, before speaking.

“What’s wrong papist?” She questions him, icy eyes looking through him. He grits out the words “I **hate** you,” before she casually hands him her glasses, and he takes his own off, letting them fall into the heap that his trenchcoat and her slacks made on the floor. They give a gentle _thup_ sound, and he quickly stops focusing on them. He presses stiff hands to hers and pins her against the stone wall, growling. She rolls her eyes then, mockingly parroting him. “You hate me? I _doubt_ that. Wasn’t it you that kissed me the **first** time? Or you that-”

“ **Stop** ”

“Wasn’t it you who _shoved_ your hand between my thighs and _**rubbed**_ through my-”

“ **Shut** **up** ”

“Wasn’t it you who **came** while you said my _**name**_?”

“Ah said shut th' _**FUCK**_ up!”

She grins, knowing she’s getting under his nigh-impenetrable skin. She remembers the day he pressed her to a wall, hissed threats of death against her face. She remembers the way he suddenly looked as if he was struck, in pain with the idea of what he’d do next. The way he _**sinned**_ , like a frantic teen trying to finish before his parents discover what he’s done. She remembers how he sinned despite his holiness, shunned god and his devotion in the moment to find _**absolution**_ between her thighs. How he's' continued to do it when she doesn't have her _**dog**_ on trips with her.

He recalls the way she bucked and whined, _tantalizingly_ egging him on, watching as she found a heaven long since turned away for her when she came. He remembers the sheer pride he feels in his chest knowing he makes her cum. He wonders sometimes, when he is alone in his room late at night, _**awake**_ with his demons, if he’s the **only** one. He doubts it and wonders just how many people she shares intimacy with. It disgusts and draws him in. He cannot help but feel his erection **grow** while he thinks of how she looks when she is cumming; an _**angel**_ , eyes looking up, shoulders drawn up and in, chest heaving, hips rocking, a sound of sweet _surrender_ on her lips.

“Don’t _**lie**_ and say you don’t enjoy this. You know as well as I do that we both enjoy this. It feels too good not to worry about feelings. Hate is an excellent _**savior**_.” She hits him with the truth and for a moment he considers collecting his coat and walking away. It snares him to think of feelings, traps him in his mind.

_**Feelings**_.

He shoves the terrifying concept of having feelings for her back into the corners of his mind and glares at her. He lets her then unbuckle his belt before working to undo his pants. _Slowly_ she slips the zipper all the way down, hand slithering into the opening, fingers finding and squeezing his cock through the fabric of his boxers. He groans, before working to strip himself of the rest of his clothes, the fabric piling on top of the rest. She puts her hands on his now bare chest, fingers tracing over his scars. She wonders about them but ultimately doesn’t have time to care. She lets her hand rest over one particularly _gruesome_ scar on his right pectoral. 

She, too, is covered in scars. Some from battles long won, some from her childhood training, and some he’d never guess the cause of. In return for her gentle ministrations over his skin, he lets himself run wide hands across her body, briefly running his fingers over the one on her shoulder, and considers that it looks to be the oldest scar on her body, a **grizzly** gash in her silky skin. It looks old like the one that _split_ open his jaw and tore skin just up to his eye. He moves away from that scar to trace the scars on her chest, bullet wounds, and blade marks, one in particular framing the mound of her breast, dipping between them. He traces the path of the scar before she once again found his cock with her hands. 

There was no more time for _foreplay_ , or talk. He grabs hold of her and growls, her hand then finds his shoulder to support herself. She knows this will be rough. He enters her, pushing deep into her, and she can feel him bump into her cervix painfully. She knew many women hated the feeling, but for her, the pain helped _**elevate**_ her arousal. She looks up in pleasure and notices that she is pinned to the wall like _**art**_ , between a painting of a biblical scene and a portrait of a saint. She loses concentration when he thrusts hard into her without having slid out, filling and stretching her out. Either of his gloved hands reach her hips, gripping them as he lifts her off the ground to better fuck her. She is a masterpiece he has chaotically created.

She locks her legs around his waist, and she cries out at one particularly hard thrust before it all **blurs** into a _frenzy_ of passionate fucking. Like always this became a fight with no clear _winner_. It doesn’t last long and she’s beginning to whine and moan as if she’s coming close. He too begins to reach his climax, grunting and snarling as he fucks her mercilessly. There were bruises forming already, and blood in their mouths from biting each other to stifle moans. Her nails dug into his shoulders, gouging roughly. They are covered in a thin sheen of sweat that makes them slick and sticky and hot, and their hair both respectively cling to wet skin.

He is first to reach the precipice and he reaches up, grabbing her face to lock eyes with her as he pulls out, cumming across her flat stomach, it is a hot and messy moment, and before he can move or do anything, she swipes a finger across the mess, _licking_ her gloved digit. He watches in awe as she grins, and he feels himself hardening again. Damn. He pushes his fingers against her clit and roughly works to finish her off. It doesn’t take long, and she cries out, bucking against his hand, pressing forward into his body.

As each of their orgasms came to an end he looked at her with curiosity. She had looked so _angelic_ as she came, hair clinging to wet skin, gold and glittering in the moonlight. It was **appalling** how attracted to her he was. He enjoyed knowing that for days she’d have thick purple bruise marks all over her body, usually in the shape of his hand. He knows too that she enjoys knowing he’ll have her teeth and claw marks in his skin, even if he heals too fast. They peel away from one another and move to clean up and prepare the scene. He reaches into a pocket on his trenchcoat, pulling out a handkerchief he kept for these specific moments. She takes it _gratefully_ and wipes away the mess he left her. He knows he’ll feel this night for a while, even if the physical evidence goes away in hours. Her skin is a canvas of hickeys and bite marks and bruises and he thinks she’s never looked more _**beautiful**_.

They begin to dress, and as they do she begins to put her cravat back on, before he moves her hands away, fixing it _for_ her. She looks away, not acknowledging that the gesture was sweet, and when he’s done she walks away, returning with the stiff white collar she’d tossed away, putting it on for him. She grabs him, pushing him against the wall, moaning into his lips. He closes his eyes, takes in one _last_ moment.

He feels a pang in his chest that this moment has to end. Before he knows it, as they finish dressing, she finds her gun and he hears the safety slip off and he cannot react before the white-hot pain of a gunshot rattles through his body. She shoots him five times, twice in the legs, once in the arm, and twice in the abdomen. He hisses, before stabbing her arm with a bayonet, moving in to slice and jab at her clothing, careful not to hurt her too badly, as she tears their clothes to make sure the scene sells. They kiss once more and though they do not claw at one another or mess each other up, it is all but frantic and heavy.

A guard who has just woken up _shambles_ disorientedly into the room just as lips part, they exit the kiss, and the moment sneering at each other.

“Papist.”

“Feckin' Hin whoor'.” He snaps, and she grins, taking a step back.

“Walk yourself home, _**dog**_ , your collar is missing its tag. I might put you down if you look too feral.”

“Yeah braw, but min', th' next time Ah see ye i'll rin ye ben, huir.”

He moves methodically to appear as if he’s aiming for one last shot, before turning, a bullet whizzing past his nose. One sideways glances back at her and he feels his heart _**plunge**_. He takes one pause before shoving her back into the wall. He leaves then, and she exits too, shortly after with her guards.

_ They are both **intensely** willing to keep the act up, no matter what. _


	2. Apostasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They don't get a happily ever after, they don't deserve it. But what they do receive in the pews of this church is far more painful.

If he were watching, god himself would _**turn** **away**_ from this scene. The spark of sin found when the snake tempted Eve, the spark that caused countless tragedies. And now the _**spark**_ has caught the whole of them on fire, threatening to consume every inch of them and leave nothing but scorched earth in its wake. God would not want to see how his faithful servant now seemed to have an invisible collar around his throat, lust the padlock, and leash held tight by Integra Hellsing. She could captivate Anderson with a tentative breath, could hold him still with the slightest glance. _Whenever_ she wanted, he appeared. He was captive to the arch of her back, the bow of her lips, the exaltation she breathed with every moan. She wrote poetry of sin on these walls with her moans and sounds.

Unlike their earlier trysts, they had stopped meeting on missions, instead taking to secret meetings, most often in a church. It always goes the _same_ ; Integra appears, they drop their weapons, and they fuck. After there is no post-coital cuddling, no pillow talk, just _empty_ _space_ as they dress and leave. It _wounds_ his tender heart, and he hates that. She provides an alibi for both of them, arranges the meetings. She is a mastermind of this kind.

_Tonight_ he pins her in the back pews of a church, her back flat against the wood seat, knees bent, one hooked over the back, the other foot pressed to the floor. She is a _vision_ of lust, tanned and naked, and in this _moment_ , this sordid affair, she is **_his_**. He may have her _until_ they cum, and then it is time to **lose** her again. She exhales and looks away, before ordering him to get it over with.

Tonight is **_different_**. A palpable _silence_ hangs in the air, clinging to the skin like sweat. Where usually moans and whines and growls permeate the night air, tonight only saw **silence**. Like always she takes sick pleasure in feeling him deep within her in this holy place, as she always does. But this monarch’s whore does not smile, nor does she look as if she is enjoying this truly. 

This is the **_grave_** for the tryst, dug over the days they’ve seen one another, and now it is time to lay the whole ordeal to _rest_. It has run its course and it is time to end things. The silence is like that of a funeral, and it chokes them.

_Neither_ of them are enjoying this tonight; not Integra, who _enjoys_ taunting him and the way it hurts when he’s rough, not Anderson who **_reveled_** in her angelic beauty week after week. No, they fuck in silence, barely even grunting or gasping. He watches her, looks for a hook to prove this shouldn’t be the last time. But her eyes fix on the back of the pew in front of this one and avoid his gaze. She counts down in her head until when he will break.

Eventually, the _pressure_ begins to build between her thighs, and she feels herself tighten around him. He feels it too, sucking in a groan as he plows _**harder**_ , trying to _elicit_ some sound from her. But she comes silently, eyes closing, waiting for him to finish. He forgoes his own climax to sit back, roughly grabbing her to pull her up to sit as well. She does not make eye contact still, determined **not** to look at him.

“ _ **Don’t**_.” She hisses out, reaching for her button-down, eyes fixed on _anything_ but him. She had worn a sky blue top and navy suit, and he’d thought how much like the _night_ _sky_ she looked, her whitening hair the moon hanging over them. Now he only thought of how _icy_ she was. He reaches for her, holding her shoulders with his wide hands, and she shrugs him roughly off. “ _ **Stop**_ , this has to end.” She is sitting fully upright now in front of him.

She is a _**vision**_ ; almost white gold hair sticking to exposed skin, clinging in intricate patterns to her damp cheeks, cheeks which were dusted in the lightest pink under her tawny skin, eyes _**blindingly**_ pale blue, icy _daggers_ that refuse to fall on him. He wonders if she _**knows**_ ; the _pain_ in his chest, the way his heart _seizes_ when he sees her, how hard it is becoming to keep this _**ruse**_ up. He decides she must because now she shuns him. She reaches forward, slender hands wrapping around his cock, and works over his shaft.

“ _Stop_ ,” he breathes, closing his eyes. She returns his glasses to him with a free hand, putting hers on wordlessly, but she does not stop. She continues, pumping his cock in her hand, tight and deliberate, and he bites back a groan. He pulls her close as possible, and she lifts herself up, using her hand to maneuver him into her again, wrapping her legs around his waist, grinding into his lap.

“ ** _Stop_** , Ah don’t wan’ this if it's over.” He moans, before his head falls onto her shoulder, eyes closing as he _loses_ himself, _**burying**_ his face in the crook of her neck. She does not react, just continues to pleasure him. It does not last long before he grunts, and she knows his orgasm is imminent. She does not, however, move to unseat herself, just bucks her hips harder. “ _Please_ , Integra.” He whimpers, biting into her shoulder to brace. She winces, but makes no sound, and rides him as he comes to orgasm, a shuddering, pathetic climax. He lifts his head, surprised that she let him finish inside of her, but his face looks _slapped_. 

He tries to kiss her, but lips land in damp hair as she turns her head. He _recoils_ , before picking her up off of him. Having her in his arms he tightens down, not willing to let **_go_** , but feels her steely hands press to the inside of his arms to demand release.

“We dornt hae tae end thes, ye ken 'at.” He knows he is pathetic to plead. He sounds _wounded_ , hurt, and she does not look at the pitiful creature before her. He lets go of her, as if shocked by an unseen current, and she finally glances his way. She looks resolute, annoyed, even _**angry**_. But as she looks at him she notices how worn down he appears. How much more defeated he appears. 

“Ah yes, _Father_ , because the Vatican would love to find out that you’ve laid with the enemy- ** _in churches no less_**. Tell me, has this been something of a _**fetish**_ for you? Fucking a whore in a church? Have I been your Madonna?" She barely lets him digest her cutting words, intentionally hurtful and brutal, "You’re like the rest of you papists, hypocritical, _**pitiful**_.”

He lets her speak, her _venom_ and iron tongue cutting him to pieces as she lashes him. When she stop though, he crushes his lips against hers, wincing at the rawness of his lips, abused from intense kissing and biting. He traps her in his strong arms, and she goes limp, not reacting. She mutters “ _Don’t_ ” into the kiss but he does not heed her order. He knows that once they dress, once this moment ends, she will return to being his enemy, the Hellsing bitch he loathes. But he knows he cannot loathe her now. 

“We don’ have to stop this-” he is cut off as she glares at him,

“We’ll always have to hide this.” She reminds him.

“We don’t have to tell anyone, Hellsing.” He offers. She examines his features as she ponders. They could get away with things if they continue to hide the nature of all of this. She is resolute, already having her mind made up. She looks away from his face, and he searches her expression for anything. “Nae a body has tae ken. Who would question ye?” He continues. 

“ _ **Are you in love with me, Father**_?” She asks, a cutting glance striking him with fear. “Are you begging to keep me, because losing me will hurt?” She asks as she sits back, buttoning her shirt. Every button feels like a **bullet** to him. He tries to look away to deny it. But he cannot even lie to himself.

“ _ **I dunnae kinn**_.” He admits, looking down at his hands. He didn’t know when it had happened, but his feelings had morphed, _**mutated** _in his chest. It became more than hate sex, more than fucking his rival. He no longer saw her as an enemy. He dreaded the truth of why. He often wished it could be more. He looks at her, and they lock gazes for a moment before her expression darkens, becomes _grim_. He wonders what she’s thinking. She reaches for her tie and puts it on, swatting his hands away when he tries to tie it for her, something she often lets him do. He realized how affectionate the act was and mentally chastised himself. He finds his clerical collar which had fallen into a hymnal holder on the back of the pew in front of them, putting it on quietly. She does not reach to adjust it for him like so many nights, instead moving to stand up to put the rest of her clothes on.

She would never admit it but she’d fallen into the same _**trap**_ that he had. She knew when it had begun to morph, but would never tell how over many nights she found comfort in him helping her dress, as if he were her partner helping her after a long night. The thought ran an _icy_ shiver up her spine, and she only looked back at him as he reached for her wrist, gripping her hand, pulling her down for a kiss.

She lets her slacks fall from her hands, leaning into the kiss. They part but are a breath apart, and she looks into his eyes. “ _Alexander_ ,” she whispers, a guilty tone like a sinner in confession, and he cannot help but shudder at the sound, at the feel of her breath spreading across his cheeks. He observes that she’s flushed, the warm blush spreading beneath her collar. He moves to cup a cheek before the sudden sound of a smack ringing through the church. 

She had slapped him, caught him off guard, ended the intimacy.

“I don’t _want_ to keep living like this. It’s not good to keep hiding in the shadows and skulking around like this.”

He nodded solemnly. “I **_know_**.”

They stand and separate, backs turned to one another as they finish dressing. He looks once back at her, watching her smooth her hair out as she shakes her head, looking down at her palms. He looks away, giving her the privacy she deserves, and he does not look back as she reaches over, running a gloved hand over his arm, before walking away in the other direction. He does not move again until he hears the church doors close behind her, and he slumps into the pew, head in his hands. All this time he’d been a _**fool**_. 

As he stands up once more, to leave the church, he reaches into his coat pockets to find his pocket watch. He cannot find it where it normally rests, but his hands slip over the smooth metal of something else in the other pocket. He pulls it out, a silver pocket watch with the Hellsing insignia etched into it. He opens it, looking at the time, before pocketing it again. He does not question it, and only assumes he lost his to time.

He does not think of the fact that she checks her new antique gold one before she climbs into a black car, like the hearse of this whole affair, driving away.

They **don’t** get a happy ending, they don’t even get dignity, just an unsatisfying _ending_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place in the span of time between the first time she meets him and the destruction of London. I refuse to accept that the series takes place over a series of weeks, and think it's more plausible that it takes months if not years. I love the idea of Anderson having this unspoken feeling for her, which tortures him. She's aware of it, and that becomes a problem. This isn't the end, but it does put a close on the hidden trysts hiding all the time.
> 
> I orphaned the original series and decided to rewrite it after falling in love with the series again. You can find the original (which is shoddy,) under the same name and many of the same tags.

**Author's Note:**

> “Ah coods knock ye it if Ah wanted tae, min' 'at.”- I could knock you out if I wanted, remember that  
> “Feckin' Hin whoor'.”- Fucking protestant whore  
> “Yeah braw, but min', th' next time Ah see ye i'll rin ye ben, huir.” - Yeah, fine, but remember that the next time I see you I'll run you through.
> 
> This takes place in the span of time between the first time she meets him and the destruction of London. I refuse to accept that the series takes place over a series of weeks, and think it's more plausible that it takes months if not years. I love the idea of Anderson having this unspoken feeling for her, which tortures him. She's aware of it, and that becomes a problem. 
> 
> I imply that she's either sleeping with or in a relationship with Seras and Alucard because I love the concept of this polyamourous queen getting whatever she wants. SHe deserves it I think.
> 
> I orphaned the original series and decided to rewrite it after falling in love with the series again. You can find the original (which is shoddy,) under the same name and many of the same tags.


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